Cureless Normalcy
by themissingsock
Summary: SPOILER WARNING: Do not read unless you've finished DH completely. In an extension of the Epilogue, Harry discovers that accepting help is far easier than distancing himself from those who love him.
1. Return to Godric's Hollow

Omg _another_ fic. I'm really doing myself in, aren't I?

* * *

One: _Return to Godric's Hollow_

In any normal situation, such as rescuing a small rock from a two-headed Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher or ridding the girl's bathroom of a deadly snake the length of the Quidditch grounds, the buzz and excitement over his heroic deeds died down within the month, perhaps a little into the next. However, despite six whole years having passed since the fateful duel in the Great Hall, Harry still found himself trudging to his front door at all hours of the day to greet packs of witches and wizards who all cheered at his appearance (meaning his arrival, rather than the sight of an unshaved underside of his chin or at his unruly black hair before being combed).

The crowds were thinning, ever slowly, and Harry couldn't help rejoicing slightly, but cursing himself for having chosen to live in the newly visible number twelve Grimmauld Place. Eventually he just stopped coming to the door, only to find that the pounding traveled to windows and to walls and became a continuous sound until finally he was forced to throw open the door, show himself, then throw it shut again and return to the Daily Prophet.

Finally, a two and a half weeks before his twenty-third birthday, he figured he'd given enough publicity to the people of the wizarding world. As the knocking began at the early hour of seven, he closed his trunk and waved his wand lazily before apparating with a loud crack. Upon his departure, and much to the dismay of the people grouped in front of his house, a small sign appeared just below the metal numbers on his front door: "Mr. Potter has taken a sudden, secluded, and silent vacation".

All such sudden events lead him to a very leisurely lifestyle. He was never one to enjoy such grandeur as pictures in the Prophet or award ceremonies or ribbon cuttings or any of that. He'd rather just remain a normal wizard in a normal life. But, of course, because he was "The Boy Who Lived" or "The Chosen One" or whatever it was they were calling him these days, he could only dream of a life in solitude.

Perhaps in a few more years.

He stood silently, catching his breath from the suffocation that was Apparition, staring up the gated path of his first home in Godric's Hollow. Yes, it was obvious. That's what he was going for. The best hiding place is directly under the pursuer's nose, he figured. Besides, the Potter house was destroyed. No one would expect for him to have chosen it for his new home.

He checked around the neighborhood, watching as a couple walked out of sight down a nearby alley and made sure all nearby curtains were drawn. Then with as much silence as he could muster, he began repairing the house before him. Wood flew from the ground, soot and dirt fell from chunks of the roof and each piece fell perfectly in place where it had once lived. Standing back he admired his handiwork. The house and, from what he could see, all in it were repaired and set in something of an order.

And then, in an instant, the house reverted to its destroyed appearance.

Any wizard ignorant of Harry's plan would immediately think the house was under some form of spell placed by the people who inserted the memorial sign just behind the gate. However, Harry's expression did not change. In fact, he seemed pleased. He was now the secret keeper to his own home in Godric's Hollow.

Pulling his trunk behind him he approached the door which hung loosely from the hinges. He wasn't two steps away from the porch before the house seemed to straighten out, returning to the repaired version he'd just created moments ago. He pushed open the door, looking around the house he'd never known. The front room was dressed with a fine white couch and a matching love seat, and all around the floor toys were strewn, one of which was a small broom. In the kitchen plates sat cleaned on one side of the sink, waiting patiently to finally be returned to their home even after 22 years of idling.

Only one remained broken on the floor.

As he moved to the stairs he could see a pair of glasses, much like his own, shattered on the third step up. And in the room adjacent he could see shelves of books and, from having rolled, a wand on the floor. He'd return for that later.

As he approached the top of the stairs he could see four rooms. Though it was impossible for him to remember anything about this house, he seemed intent on picking his room out before even glancing at the other three. Inside was a crib, the bedding still neatly folded as it would've been before use. A mobile hung limply above the crib, and on the window and the mirrors on the closet doors there were stickers of little wizards on brooms. Harry stood in silence as he stared at the spot where his mother would have stood.

The entire house seemed to yawn around him. It was as if it were grateful to have a Potter back within its confines. Harry walked silently around the rooms and halls for a while, taking in the entire situation smoothly. It'd take some getting used to, living in this house.

He did miss seeing the Weasleys, and he did miss Hermione. But the burden of all the wizarding community appearing at the door was enough for him to handle. He didn't want to burden them with it as well.

It wasn't an easy job, cleaning the cottage; dust coated everything and paint crumbled from the walls. Door jambs were loose and the stairs creaked. It took him a good two weeks and two days to finish all the work. He had the house looking good as new and, despite knowing he couldn't show it off, he was rather proud of his work.

Up until that point he'd been sleeping downstairs on the couch. The only available bed was in the guest room, and the frame was so rickety he didn't trust even sitting on it. The bed in his parents' room was neatly folded and tempting, but he couldn't let himself sleep there.

He entered his kitchen set a pot of water to the stove. He'd become used to guests of all kinds visiting on his birthday, so being alone on the eve was something of a culture shock. By the time this thought crossed his mind something caught his ears—the water in the pot hadn't even begun to boil before crunching footsteps could be heard outside on the dead grass. Figuring it was just a mourner, or one of the neighbors passing outside the front gate, he moved in to the pantry to begin emptying one of the many bags he'd filled back at Grimmauld Place.

He only came to a stop when the crunching resumed, seemingly growing louder. Someone seemed to have bypassed the gate.

Frantic, he reached for his wand. He approached the door slowly, careful to stay back within the house far enough to avoid being seen—this all considering the intruder figured out the spell on the Potter's cottage. He watched silently as the shadowed figure wandered around the yard, moving to random places and stopping as if to look at something. More than once the person tilted sideways as if looking upward at the damaged house.

Then, much to Harry's dismay, the cloaked figure moved to the door. They more likely weren't aware of the spell, but they seemed intent on reaching the front porch. Feeling slightly disheartened, Harry rushed to turn off all the lights he'd ignited before returning to the well hidden viewpoint he'd found. The person had reached the door and, from what he could see, was staring through their hood almost sympathetically at the door he was sure still appeared lopsided.

The figure moved calculatedly. With certain ease they reached their hand from under their cloak and placed it gently against the doorjamb. Judging by the petit shape of the hand and the well-trimmed nails, the guest was a woman. She seemed to be taking in the sight of the destroyed home when something bizarre happened—in a single, swift movement, she retracted her hand, then thrust it at the door.

Harry stumbled backward, wand extended, gaping at the sight before him. There seemed to be a tear around the door; the fabric of the secret surrounding the house had been torn when the guest pressed open the door. She stepped through the hole, repairing it graciously before she turned and stopped in front of Harry, silent.

Had he not seen the flash of an excited grin he wouldn't have known this woman was trustworthy.

"You might've knocked," he started through a grin, only just managing to brace himself before being tackled into a hug.

"Oh, Harry, we've all been worried sick!" Hermione squealed, throwing back her hood and taking Harry's shadowed cheeks in her hands. "How long have you been here? You look ill!"

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry said, not sure whether or not he should be offended or relieved that someone noticed. Without answering her question he turned to the kitchen, letting the hiss of the teapot serve as an invitation for her to join him for tea.

He motioned for her to sit at his newly finished table and moved toward a cake he'd been saving for his birthday. It was a rather pathetic cake; the frosting was lopsided and the cake itself seemed to have shrunk on one side. It was a lumpy mass of yellow and white, and a single, previously burned candle sat at an awkward angle on top. If one had never seen his Gringotts vault they'd think the man was impoverished.

Hermione sat in an awkward silence, obviously displeased with her surroundings. She was desperate to start conversation but, knowing how sentimental Harry was about his parents and their belongings, figured a comment on the house wouldn't be the wisest outlet. And, of course, she spoke before she realized that her second option was just as awkward: "Ginny's been worried about you," she realized what she'd said far too late.

A cup and saucer clinked loudly and a teaspoon spun to the floor. A nearly inaudible, "So sorry," could be heard as he knelt down to pick up the spoon and wipe up the small puddle of tea.

Hermione tilted her head sympathetically but Harry gave her no reaction. "Harry, we've—"

Her cup clinked down in front of her. A small splash of tea landed on the table but it went unnoticed. Harry sat down with a loud thump and he leaned onto the table, eyes locked with Hermione's. "For six years I've dealt with armies of witches and wizards arriving at my door."

"Yes, Harry, I know," Hermione cut in, ignoring Harry's frustrated glare. "But in those six years you've ignored every letter sent to you. Ron and I've sent you letters, Ginny's probably sent you a novel, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley have been threatening to send howlers…we worry about you, Harry."

"What is there to worry about? I've killed Voldemort. I've got practically no danger left to worry about."

Hermione broke into vicious laughter and Harry had to hit the table with his palm to make her stop. "I'm sorry, but don't you think you're being a bit naïve?" Harry was not amused. "All the Death Eaters and their supporters, and people who just want the glory of killing Harry Potter?" Still unaffected.

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"I don't doubt that. But you're looking past the obvious," she said after a short sip of tea. "Danger isn't all we're worried about. We're worried about your health, Harry." This seemed to take him by surprise. "You've been living alone for six years, you haven't contacted any of us, you're barely eating," at the look she received she merely glared back. Harry was so obviously malnourished, denying it could be leveled with a criminal offense. "You're dirty," again, she glared. "You're just not taking care of yourself."

"I'm doing fine." He said, now officially offended. "I've just been preoccupied—fixing this place up, you know."

"At least clean yourself up and come to the Burrow for your birthday," She said, hushing him before he could interrupt. "The Weasley's would be glad to know you're…alright." The last word was so calculated Harry couldn't help but snort angrily.

It took him a moment and exchanged awkward glances before he heaved a sigh and stood. Scratching at the stubble under his chin he watched Hermione's eyes scatter across his face before speaking. "I'll be down in ten minutes." The look of excitement on Hermione's face was both amazing and still offensive in a way. But, nevertheless, Harry retreated to the upstairs portion of the house.

* * *

They arrived at the Burrow late enough that their appearance was a surprise. Even in the wizarding world it was strange to arrive on someone's doorstep at 10 o'clock.

"Oh, Harry!" Mrs. Weasley howled, attacking the door when she saw him through the window. "We've been worried sick! Where have you been? You must be so hungry, do you even remember how to eat?"

Not quite sure whether he was being reprimanded or not, he stammered. "Er…Hello…" Before his six years of absence, Mrs. Weasley had insisted that he was only a part of the family now, and that he was to call her Molly and Mr. Weasley, Arthur. However, this task proved harder than imagined, especially now after such a long absence.

Ignoring his hesitance Molly pulled him into the house and threw him into the kitchen. "My dear, I'll get some soup on for you…and some firewhiskey…do you like garlic bread, dear?"

Molly's words were lost on Harry's ears as he stared in to the empty kitchen just beyond the door. He wasn't sure whether or not he should be honored or offended—had the Weasley's all gone looking for him? Or had Hermione just up and left on a whim, unaware that no one else would follow and would prefer to retire to their bedrooms? His thoughts were quickly interrupted, however, by a swift yanking of his arm and a harsh thrust against his chest. He fell back into the chair pulled out for him and found himself facing a large round bowl of onion soup.

He'd hardly opened his mouth to thank Molly before a bottle of firewhiskey and a plate of steaming garlic bread landed just behind the bowl. "Eat up, dear, we can't have you starving."

Nodding he shoveled a spoonful of soup into his mouth. Hermione sat across from him. Just barely audible over his chewing noises, she said, "I'm so glad to see you again, Harry." As if this point hadn't been made clear in Godric's Hollow with all the hints toward his poor hygiene. "Curious…why were you so distant?"

He heaved a boiling swallow, regretting not having blown on that particular spoonful. "Distant?"

"Don't act like you don't know. You ignored our letters, never sent one of your own—"

"I don't have an owl."

Hermione retracted, knowing she'd hit a vulnerable point. In all the years since Hedwig's death, Harry refused to buy another owl. Childish as it may seem, he just couldn't see himself befriending any owl as much as he had with Hedwig.

Not enjoying the awkward silence anymore than the others, Molly decided to enter with a new, more easily accepted subject. Setting a bowl of soup in front of Hermione, who, even at this late hour, seemed accepting, she sat down and smiled. "I don't suppose you've heard," she began, smiling all the brighter.

Hermione turned an amazing shade of red.

"Please, I'd really rather tell him myself," she did not look happy that the subject was brought up by anyone other than herself. "And I'd like to have Ron here, to catch him should he feel faint."

"My dear, I doubt he'll faint. The signs were plain as day! It was bound to happen sometime."

"Yes, but I'd prefer…"

"Fine. We'll wait for Ronald and the others."

Harry, mouth full of soup, looked at the others confused (though this was hard to make out through his bulging, red cheeks). They didn't seem, to notice, however, so he chose to voice his confusion. "What's the matter? Are you alright, Hermione?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine." She said bluntly.

"Where are the others?"

"Out looking for you, dear." Said Molly. This answer did not please him, but he chose not to press further. Molly just continued of her own free will. "They've been out since noon. They do this everyday, you know," Harry wasn't sure if he was being made to feel bad or if she was just stating a fact. "They usually come home around now. Perhaps in a few more minutes."

And, as always, their cue had been met perfectly. With four loud cracks Arthur, George, Ron, and Bill all appeared in the kitchen. Like the polite women they were, Ginny and Fleur chose to appear in the front room. The kitchen was cramped enough without all of them appearing there at once. Without hesitation, Ginny, Fleur, and Ron all chimed, "Harry!" and attacked him, nearly knocking him off his chair.

Ron mussed his friend's dark hair, despite its obvious greasy dirtiness. He'd brushed it, yes, but in the ten allotted minutes that's all he was able to do. "Where have you been, mate?"

"We've been—"

"Worried sick." Harry said, cutting Ginny off. She huffed slightly but said nothing.

"Oh, 'Arry! Eet is so goot to zee you!" Fleur pushed the others aside, coating Harry's face in kisses. Ginny's expression quickly turned to anger. "You are…alright?" She said with the same disgust as Hermione. She'd apparently gotten a better look at the dark haired wizard before her.

"I'm fine, thanks." He was becoming slightly annoyed by all these implications, but was fully aware that he needed a shower. One can't so easily shower in a house that's supposed to be deserted. Steam escaping the windows could easily be seen, even with a protective spell.

Arthur approached the table and took his seat at the head. A bowl of soup did not hesitate to appear before him. "So, where were you hiding?"

"Godric's Hollow."

"Godric's Hollow? In your old house, no doubt. But how'd you get in? That cottage surely isn't fit to house anyone." Arthur took a spoonful of soup and, like Harry, immediately regretted not blowing on it.

"I repaired it, then made myself secret keeper."

Arthur smiled endearingly. It was a look one usually only sees between a proud father and his son. "Good plan, my boy!"

The room silenced quickly. Apparently no one wanted to step on Harry's toes—he wasn't open to hear that they were worried, he was already aware of his hygiene, no one dared venture out and ask him a direct question about his distancing himself…

Molly was not one to let a silence last too long. And she wasn't about to let Hermione forget her promise. So, feeling that all who were eating should be done, she waved her wand and all the dishes floated lazily into the sink. Somewhat angered and somewhat unsure of what was going on, Arthur and Harry, still hungry, looked up and stared at her. "Sitting room."

Harry was surprised to see what he saw: the sitting room was _clean._ George, who'd been silent to this point, noticed Harry's astonishment. "Mum gets bored at home alone. Cleaned the whole upstairs, too."

The men all stood, watching as the women chose their seats. Molly, however, refused to let Hermione or Ron sit. "Harry, dear, you sit right here. In the middle. And—no, no, Hermione, you'll be standing here with Ronald." Harry sat between Fleur and Ginny, and Bill sat in his own chair just close enough to hold Fleur's hand. George and Arthur sat on the loveseat next to Ginny's side of the main couch, and Molly found herself a nice leaning position against Arthur's armrest. "Well go on, you two. Harry needs to hear the news."

With heaving sighs and a deep look into each other's eyes, the two turned to face Harry despite the others in the room. "Well…as most of you know, Ronald and I have been…_together_…for the past three years…" Harry did not find this shocking at all. He was just surprised that they hadn't gotten together sooner. "And, well…we'll be getting married."

At first, Harry wasn't shocked. His expression didn't even change. But then, after a moments time, he realized that _Hermione _had said it. That she and _Ron _were getting married. Had it been any other couple he wouldn't have faltered in the least. Suddenly he found himself mouthing things, not sure of what to say, mumbling wildly…

"Oh, wow," he finally said, eyes shooting from Ron to Hermione then back. "Oh…this is wonderful." He couldn't say he was happy yet…and God knows he wouldn't admit his sudden jealousy. "Congratulations, you two."

They smiled, happy that their best friend seemed happy for them. Harry could feel Ginny writhing next to him, but it subsided when he looked over at her. And, without warning, Harry was pulled up from his seat and yanked over into a corner by Ron. Conversation broke out behind them, most of which was between Molly and Hermione about colors and invitations. "So, Harry…" he turned his attention back to Ron. "I was wondering, would you be my best man?"

"What kind of question is that?" Ron looked somewhat taken aback by Harry's response. "Of course I'll be your best man, you git!" Ron's expression morphed and, however awkward it was for them, the two men hugged each other. Realizing that they had both put their pride on the line, they quickly pulled off one another and entered the crowded sitting room.

* * *

Amazed at how long he'd taken in the shower, Harry found himself exiting the bathroom an hour and a half later than he'd entered. He moved silently through the hall—since Ron and Hermione felt the sudden need to share a room, he'd be staying in the room he and Ron usually shared alone. However, when he pushed open the door he found that he was not, in fact, alone. Feeling somewhat conscious of the fact that he was only wearing pajama bottoms, he gripped his towel tightly with both hands, letting it hang limply in front of his stomach. "Ginny, hello."

The red-head spun around at the sound of his voice. Her face nearly matched her hair. "Oh, hello Harry."

The two stared.

Harry, trying not to sound rude while maintaining a firm approach, said finally, "Why are you in my room?"

She seemed to be searching for an answer, which also seemed to be eluding her. She looked over at the bed, where a trunk sat open. "I was…going to collect your clothes. Laundry tomorrow."

"I've only just arrived. Only one of my outfits is dirty."

"Are you certain?" She said with a loud sarcasm. "Not to be rude, but until you took that shower I wasn't convinced that any bit of you was clean!" She laughed uncomfortably. Harry did not comply. "Er…right. Well…"

Harry tossed the towel onto his bed and, in one movement, scooped all of the clothes in his trunk into a white bag at the bottom. He pulled the drawstring, looped it together, then held out the bag to Ginny. She was awestruck, but took the bag nonetheless. She looked over to the trunk to see a jacket limply hanging just off the side. "Do you want that washed, as well?"

Glancing over at it, Harry moved to pick it up and held it out to Ginny so that the entirety of the jacket could be seen. The front pocket was torn off somewhat, and the drawstring was missing. The ends of the sleeves where frayed and the hood had a hole toward the collarbone of the left side. There was a large, red-brown stain running from just below the armpit to the very bottom of the right side. "I should probably get rid of it."

"No!" Ginny said all too suddenly. Both were surprised. "I could get the stain out, if you'd like. And I could mend it."

Harry wasn't sure why she was so set on fixing this jacket, but he didn't really care either. "I don't think it fits me anymore, anyway. It might." She seemed dejected. He felt bad. "Why don't you have it? I mean…it's not in any good state, but if you think you could mend it I don't see why you shouldn't keep it." The girl standing before him seemed to beam brighter than the sun itself.

Realizing that she must look overly excited she took in a deep breath and flattened her expression. "Yes. Well…thank you." By this time, Ginny was dangerously close to Harry. So close, in fact, that she could feel his breath coming down onto her face as they stared each other directly in the eyes. It was all she could do not to reach out and touch his bare chest.

Harry could feel something in the air change slightly, but couldn't put his finger on it before saying, "Well, goodnight."

Ginny, relieved, nodded. "Yes…goodnight." Swiftly she moved around him, leaving him to stare at the floor where she'd once stood. Having become so lost in the moment, he didn't even hear the light thump of her back hitting the door as she leaned against it, clutching her new jacket against her chest with a heartfelt smile.

* * *

Thanks again to Nighty for pre-reading this for me. Without her opinion, I probably wouldn't have the guts to upload this lovely piece of… "writing". 


	2. Froghorn's Collectibles

It's been ages since I wrote last, but I don't really care. I just watched the fifth Harry Potter movie and I'm back once again into my addiction.

Two: _Froghorn's Collectibles_

After spending two weeks and two days sleeping on a couch, the entire idea of waking up seemed simply unfair, and Harry intended to do everything in his power to stay asleep. It didn't take much; no sooner had his head hit the pillow the previous night had he passed out into an unshakable slumber.

Unbeknownst to him, all of Ron (wanting a chat), Hermione (wanting a chat), Ron and Hermione (checking to see if he wasn't writhing in some form of nightmare), Molly (checking to see if he wasn't comfortable), Molly and Hermione (checking to see if he was warm enough), Molly and Ginny (returning folded laundry), Ginny (to stare), and George (looking for Ron), had entered his room. And still he lay unmoving and silent, dead asleep.

He didn't wake up completely until sometime around one o'clock in the afternoon, and only because he'd fallen out of bed. Rubbing his now sore shoulder he sat upright and put on his glasses. It was rather chilly for a July afternoon; he'd left his window open last night by accident and now found himself sitting on a cold wooden floor with his bare back to the open breeze.

"Harry, are you alright?" Forgoing the politeness of a knock, Ginny pressed open his door. "I heard a noise,".

"Fine," He said, pushing himself up. "Just fell off the bed."

Ginny giggled slightly, finally making her way into the room. "Oh, silly, you really should—" She was stopped once again by the sight of a shirtless Harry standing with the convenience of a backlighting. She flushed slightly, but found him doing the same. "You…you'll catch your death leaving the window open like that…without a shirt…"

The two looked away quickly.

"Uh…my laundry…"

"Mum and I brought it in last night. You were out cold. Didn't move once in your sleep," Harry didn't know whether or not to find this fact interesting or creepy, but chose to say nothing. Ginny moved to the chair on the opposite side of the room and rifled through the folded clothes. "Is there a shirt you'd like?"

Harry didn't say anything.

Ginny, apparently, didn't notice. "This one looks nice," She said idly, setting it on top of a sweatshirt. She picked the two things up and turned, preparing to say something, to find Harry standing at an uncomfortably close range. "Oh! So sorry…"

"My fault, my fault," He said, flushed and scratching the back of his head nervously. The two exchanged quick awkward glances and finally Harry reached out to grab the shirts. "Yes, well…thanks." He said, writhing slightly in the weight of the silence.

Ginny, just as uncomfortable, struggled to find herself an excuse to leave. "Right, well…I'll go have Mum make you a sandwich…"

And without another word from either of them, Harry was left alone.

* * *

It was odd, being clean shaven. He'd grown attached to the stubble crawling all over his face, but he was rather pleased with his finished product. He did leave a bit on the underside of his chin, though, just for good measure. He mussed his hair as he walked, fantasizing about the food he could smell from downstairs, when he was bombarded by the women of the house.

"Harry, dear…" Molly said apologetically, looking him up and down. "While I'm sure you're comfortable, we do need to take you shopping."

He wasn't quite sure how to take this. "I have plenty of clothes." He hadn't grown much over the past few years, just a little in height and a little more in muscular stature, but all this did was make his shirts tighter around the arms and chest and forced him to throw out all the jeans that were too short.

"Darling, you have four shirts and a pair of jeans."

"Three of the four shirts are pulling at the seams," Ginny said. "The undershirt is fine, but it's stained badly."

Harry pulled out the neck of his shirt and looked at the once-white tank beneath.

"Just let us take you shopping," Hermione said. "It'll be fun."

"Vee vill geet you zee hair cut, zee new clothes, zee everyzing!" Fleur, apparently expecting Harry to agree, already had her hair pulled back and her sunglasses in hand.

"Well I—"

"Then it's settled!" Molly wasted no time dragging Harry down the stairs and to the fireplace. She obviously thought that if she couldn't hear his voice of protest, he wasn't protesting at all. "Go on, dear. You go first. Diagon Alley, now, loud and clear."

Despite the Floo Network having been cleared and safe since the end of the war, Harry had never been particularly attracted to the form of travel. He couldn't help but feel a pang of discomfort every time he thought about the fat little toad of a woman patrolling the Hogwarts fireplaces. Not to mention the physical discomfort.

But, rather than complain, he stepped into the ashes. The flower pot was now conveniently hung next to the fireplace, just at arms length of anyone inside the hearth. He took a handful of the green powder and swallowed hard. "Diagon. Alley." He was careful to accentuate each word this time, so as to avoid ending up in Knockturn Alley again.

As it happened, Harry managed to choose the wrong fireplace once again. However, it wasn't entirely his fault. The women had never specified which store they'd be meeting in. So technically, the fact that he ended up in Froghorn's Collectibles wasn't bad. Although, the fact that he'd never heard of Froghorn's was something to deal with.

Brushing ash from his shoulders Harry ducked out of the hearth to take a look around. The store was empty, which wasn't particularly surprising this time of year. Mostly, around Harry's birthday, people were more focused on Godric's Hollow and the infamous Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, hoping to catch a glimpse of the last remaining Potter.

Froghorn's was somewhat embarrassing for Harry. Everywhere he turned he saw "autographed" photographs of himself smiling or walking by or just staring off into the distance, Quidditch action figures of himself holding a Firebolt, manufactured Gryffindor Quidditch cloaks (apparently, as a clipped article on the wall read, his number had been retired a few years ago, for whatever reason). He saw cheap remakes of his wand, little pairs of glasses, and little stickers shaped like his scar. It rather upset him, actually.

A short, balding old man with glasses so thick his eyes looked to be the size of tea saucers appeared behind the counter. "I apologize, good sir!" He said in a nasally voice. "I didn't hear the bell ring. What can I get for you?" He hurried around the counter, showing the rest of his long and wide nose, as well as his bushy brown mustache. Froghorn was a skinny man whose head seemed too big for his body, as did his feet. Although he did look quite nice in his Quiberon Quafflepunchers neck tie.

"Perhaps a Diagon Alley coffee mug? Or maybe a Chudley Canons t-shirt for the Quidditch fan in you? Or, if you're interested, a limited edition pair of Hogwarts boxer shorts? I've got all four houses in stock."

Harry said nothing.

"Something wrong with you, boy?" Froghorn asked, approaching Harry with all his 'fine' products in hand. "Cat got your—" Despite the mop of messy black hair, the man managed to find Harry's scar. He stared for a while before finding his voice once again. "You're Harry Potter."

_Really? I hadn't noticed! _"Yes, hello."

"I'm honored," the little man said, still in awe. "But what brings you here?"

"Got lost in the Floo Network."

The little man laughed before setting down the merchandise. "Oh yes, it's happened to me many times." He took hold of Harry's elbow, leading him into the back of the store. "Pardon the clutter, I wasn't expecting such a monumental guest."

Harry rolled his eyes and took a seat at the small table Froghorn motioned towards.

"I'll fix up some tea then," Froghorn mumbled, obviously having missed the childish gesture.

Harry looked around him at the piles of stock logs and guest books and at the boxes of merchandise that didn't fit out in the store. It didn't take him long to realize that this shop had once belonged to none other than the Weasley twins. Mentally reminding himself to ask Molly why George had discontinued the store despite already knowing the answer, he looked back at Froghorn, who was emerging from the upstairs portion of the shop with a tea kettle and a platter of sandwiches and mugs.

Apparently feeling clever, he passed a "Potter Fan" mug across the table and poured some tea into it. The tea, oddly, was purple. Harry wasn't sure how to think of this, so he chose to avoid drinking it at all costs.

"Tell me, _Mr. Potter_, where have you been all these years?"

Such a stupid question. The whole of the wizarding world knew he was in Grimmauld Place.

Froghorn saw Harry's look of disbelief. "Let me rephrase, why haven't you been in the public eye? I'm sure ending the life of the darkest wizard in history must've gotten you some recognition."

Harry thought back to the retiring of his Quidditch number. "I don't feel that I need all that credit. It seems unfair to those who fought with me, doesn't it?"

"Oh yes, my boy. Unfair indeed." His bulging eyes narrowed. "But you are the one who killed him. Don't you think that merits a little more credit?"

"No, not really."

"I see."

In the awkwardness of the silence and the pressure of Froghorn's stare caused him to idly take a swig of the fruity smelling purple tea. However fruity it smelled, it was foul tasting. It had something of a bitter sting to it that made Harry's face scrunch uncomfortably. Realizing just how rude this was he quickly nodded, then proceeded to curse himself for having even taken a sip. He did find it slightly odd that Froghorn was grinning, but chose not to ask.

The bell outside in the shop rang and Froghorn nearly fell out of his chair. "Oh dear," he said quickly, picking himself up out of his trance. "I'll be right back, help yourself to the tea."

Harry nodded and watched as the short little man made his way through the clutter and into the shop. Taking this opportunity to stand, Harry felt himself falter ever so slightly. _Stood up too quickly…_he assured himself, holding his throbbing head and moving toward the door. "I'm sorry, but I really should be heading out, Mr. Froghorn. I'm meeting—"

He managed to catch a glimpse of Hermione and Ginny rushing back into the store before he stumbled back, clutching his head. The throbbing had taken to a slow but powerful beat that was only becoming more and more intense as the moments passed. He could hear Molly and Fleur casting some kind of spell and thought he saw Froghorn duck before the room disappeared before his eyes.

* * *

"Harry? Harry, dear, wake up. Ginny, get a cold compress," Molly's voice…still slightly frantic.

"Oh look! He's awake!" Hermione's voice.

Harry could swear his eyes were open. And he could feel his glasses on his face. But he couldn't see anything. "What's going on?" He asked, still trying to be sure he was actually awake. "Why can't I see?"

"The poison in that tea was intended to kill you, dear," Molly's voice. Harry felt a cold compress land on his forehead. "But because we caught it so quickly, we managed to concentrate it."

"Does this mean I'll be blind forever then?"

"Oh heavens no! It'll just be a few days. I've got to make the antidote and you've got to give it time to work. Perhaps I can get in touch with Madame Pomfrey…"

"Why my eyes?"

Molly giggled. "It was either that or your hearing, and we can't have that!" Harry understood why; it would mean not being able to hear arguments and act as a referee, or miss out on gossiping when Molly got bored.

"How am I going to get around? This house is full of stairs, and I don't want to be tripping over the lot of them." He thought for a moment. "And I refuse to carry a stick."

All of them laughed. "We'll take turns guiding you. Even the men will…" _Wonderful. Looking like a fool, and being treated like one._ "…and Ginny offered to go first…"

Harry could swear he felt his heart stop.

"…but mostly we'll be confining you to bed rest. We've notified the authorities, but we still think it'd just be safer if—"

"I can care for myself." Harry, despite his blindness, still had a stubborn side to him.

"Harry, you're blind."

"Yes, but I don't need to be carted around or locked away."

Hermione was obviously not pleased. "You couldn't even recognize that there was poison in that tea. One of the most basic poisons, too. It changed the color of the tea!"

"I could see that! I just took a sip by accident." The women all snorted in disbelief. Harry was not amused. "I was just doing it so I'd have an excuse not to talk. I'd told myself to avoid drinking it…"

"But you didn't. And that's why we're worried."

"I'm fine on my own."

Harry didn't know who it was, but he could hear someone grunt angrily. Then someone stomped over to the bed and put one hand on either side of Harry. He could feel her breathing she was so close, and obviously the fact that he was blind had slipped this girl's mind. Despite being blind, though, he could feel a powerful gaze aimed straight into his eyes.

"What are you thinking?" Ginny. "We had to rush in and save you! Had we been two more steps out of that store you'd be dead and on some disgusting Death Eater display!"

Harry held his breath.

"That man? Froghorn? He was on the list of suspected Death Eaters that the ministry was investigating. The only reason he was allowed to walk free was because he claimed to have 'changed his ways'. Why else would a former Death Eater mass market so much Harry Potter merchandise?"

The remaining women all laughed slightly.

"He'd been waiting for you, Harry. Waiting for the day you'd stumble in to his shop. And you did just that. How perfect! Harry Potter got lost in the Floo Network!"

The room fell silent for what felt like years, but only clocked out to be three and a half minutes. Harry, eyes only half open, sat blank faced and staring in the direction of the last voice he'd heard.

"I…think I might be able to speed the healing process a tad…" Finally, a male voice broke the silence. George had been standing in complete silence toward the back of the room (the only reason Harry knew this was because he hadn't heard footsteps). "Fred and I had a kind of candy that took away the eyesight of whoever you gave it to…we never came up with an antidote, but we did figure out a way to bring back the eye sight with magic." Harry could hear Molly's hum of disapproval. "It might not work all that well against poison, but it could speed the process up a bit."

For whatever reason, Ginny had still not moved. She'd just managed to slap Harry in the face with her hair as she turned her head toward her brother. It wasn't until George started moving that she actually pushed herself up off the bed. She was later replaced by a heavier weight on the bed, and Harry could hear her mumbling off to Hermione.

"I do remember this stinging quite a lot, but it worked." George said, and before Harry could protest he heard, "Alright now…1…2…3…_Optificus Replactico!_"

At first, it was warm. Harry could feel his eyes watering and it felt as if heating pads had been set behind his eye balls. Then, rather suddenly, it felt as if the heat were wrapping itself around his eyes and squeezing. Had he not been sane he'd have thought his eyes were going to pop.

"Dear God!" He shrieked, tearing off his glasses and throwing them across the room. He scratched and pulled at his closed eyelids, only to have his hands pulled away and what was apparently blood wiped from the scratches.

"Harry, stop! You'll tear your eyes out!"

He found himself unable to focus. The pain was ridiculously unbearable and all he could do was writhe underneath the grips of those holding his arms down.

"It must be having a reaction to the concentrated poison." Another male voice. Bill. "It'll wear off in a bit."

"A bit will seem like years to him, Bill. Get an owl to Poppy Pomfrey right away. See if she can make a house call."

The room felt like it was rising in temperature and Harry could start to feel his hair sticking to his face and his shirt to his chest. He started shaking madly, and threw himself around despite the efforts of those holding him still. It was as if the poison had intended all cures to cause pain rather than soothe. The throbbing from in the store returned, and when he opened his eyes it felt like the air itself was stinging them.

Then he felt a hand. Rough and sticky as his face was, it still managed to feel smooth against his skin. He jerked around still, but less; his curiosity was winning out over the pain. Just as suddenly as the hand had appeared, he felt something smooth press against his dripping forehead. "Shh, it's alright. Calm down now, Harry. Madame Pomfrey's on her way."

For a moment he thrashed against this contact as if afraid the pain was contagious, but he eventually stopped. His breathing was still heavy and fast, but he calmed considerably.

If he hadn't known who it was, he would've sworn the woman now sitting on his legs and holding his face against hers was his mother.

* * *

Just as Bill had predicted, the pain subsided about fifteen minutes after it started. Hermione and Madame Pomfrey, who had arrived shortly after being summoned, collaborated and decided that the "basic" poison had actually been a material form of the Cruciatus curse. Aside from the proper antidote, the poison was designed to reject and reverse the effects of any and all cures. Concentrating it to one area of the body hadn't helped much, either.

Harry had long since fallen back asleep, still drenched with sweat and eyelids still bleeding profusely. Ginny had left to wash up; her forehead was dripping with Harry's sweat and blood, and she wasn't too comfortable with the whole idea.

Bill and George had been summoned to the downstairs to speak with an officer of the Ministry who had arrived and, unbeknownst to Harry, witnessed him in the few moments before Ginny had stepped in, and Molly was busy cleaning up around the bed.

"We'll have to bandage his eyes, in case he should feel the need to scratch again," Madame Pomfrey said, not looking at anything in particular as she began wrapping the bandages around Harry's head and under his hair. Harry didn't seem to mind, just winced a bit and went on sleeping. "Just as well, the antidote isn't a pleasant one. Dealing with the Cruciatus curse is tricky, so you'll have to restrain him when you give it to him."

Surprised, Hermione looked away from the glasses she was now fiddling with. "How many times will we be giving it to him? How long will he be blinded?"

Madame Pomfrey sighed. "It will take a week for the poison to be removed and his eyes fully healed. You'll have to give him the antidote once every morning for the next seven days."

"How does the antidote work?"

"Normally you won't deal with antidotes that require the wand, but you'll be directing it at the curse, rather than the fact that it was in poison form. In other words, you'll be pulling the bad from the good, leaving the nutrients and vitamins behind."

Molly laughed. "It's a poison, Poppy. Not a vitamin tablet."

Madame Pomfrey laughed, only hers was a bit more sarcastic. "The concentration of curses requires the use of multiple vitamins and minerals. Basically it's just a contaminated medicine box."

Molly said nothing.

"And this will be painful?" Harry had woken up by this point and was listening in on the conversation.

"Oh yes, dear. I apologize, but you'll have to buck up and get through it." Madame Pomfrey never was the one to show much compassion. "It won't be nearly as painful as what you just went through, but it won't be enjoyable."

Harry swallowed hard. He raised a hand up, tracing the edge of the thick bandages now holding his eyes closed.

Seeming to sense his worry, Molly chimed in. "We'll move you into the spare room downstairs until you're all healed. Nothing to fret." He could almost hear her smiling.

"And you'll have to carry a walking stick, should no one be around to help you." Harry winced at Madame Pomfrey's voice.

"No worries!" Molly chimed again. "I've thought of this," Harry heard her rush out and down the stairs. He could also hear Madame Pomfrey whisper something along the lines of 'what is that woman up to?' to Hermione, who must've responded with a shrug. Not long passed before Molly was back. "Here, reach out your hand Harry."

Hesitantly, Harry reached out his hand. Shortly after, something cold, thin, and wooden fell into his palm. It was too long to be a wand, but seemed just the right width. "What is this?"

"It's a cane!" Hermione exclaimed, obviously impressed by something. "Just like Lucius Malfoy's," the name rolled with a sort of disgust, "Only, it's been made for your wand." Harry felt the cane in his hand. It was carved elaborately, just like his wand was.

"You see? You put your wand here, in the top, and it's there should you ever need it." Molly took his hand and had him feel around the top of the cane.

"I'll not have a walking stick." Harry said defiantly.

"It's really quite nice, Harry." Apparently, Ron had joined the room. There was no sarcasm in his voice, so Harry felt slightly better.

"Looks nice or not, you'll have yourself a cane and you'll use it, too." Madame Pomfrey took this opportunity to stand from the bed. "Be sure there are at least three people around when you use the antidote. Mr. Weasley, I'd suggest you take hold of Mr. Potter's shoulders. Ms. Granger, his legs. Molly, be ready in case something should go wrong."

"Wait, something could—" before he could finish his question, his eyes began to throb. It felt as if they were being pulled from his skull slowly and deliberately, and it burned. It was nothing like the pain he'd just experienced, no, but he couldn't help fighting against it.

Just as quickly as the pain had begun, however, it ended, leaving behind an uncomfortable but bearable tingle. "And that's it."

"It'd have been nice for you to tell me there was a chance of failure before you pulled my eyes from their sockets." Harry said, rubbing at his eyes through the bandages. This received a swat and a stern, "Don't touch your eyes!" from Hermione.

"Oh, stop your whining. Your eyes are still right where they belong." Madame Pomfrey was obviously gathering her things as she said this. "I'd rather deal with this than losing all the bones in my arm, wouldn't you? Or taking a bludger to the head?" He heard her laugh slightly before starting conversation with Molly and leaving the room. From what Harry could tell, he'd been left alone with Ron and Hermione. It was awkward, Harry sitting and "staring" into space with bandages over his eyes, Ron standing against the wall and staring at the floor, Hermione seated on the edge of the bed, fiddling with Harry's discarded glasses.

It wasn't until Harry moved to get out of the bed that the other two made any noise.

"What are you doing?" Hermione barked, standing up off the bed.

"I'm not going to hurt myself standing to change my clothes."

Ron, apparently finding himself clever, couldn't help saying, "You might hurt your dignity if you try to dress yourself, though." Had his eyes not been hidden, Harry would've shot Ron quite a nasty glance. "Tell me what shirt you'd like. I'll lend you a pair of jeans."

"These jeans are fine, Ron."

"Obviously you can't see them." And sure enough, as soon as Harry stood he could feel the sweat on the insides of his pant legs hit the cool air outside the comforter and sheets. "Hermione, shouldn't you be leaving?"

"I've polyjuiced myself into him, Ronald. Anyway, he doesn't intend to take off his trousers, does he?"

"They're probably drenched in sweat! And polyjuice or not it's still not right to see Harry in his trousers. At least turn away!"

Hermione obliged, as Harry heard, and he quickly took off his jeans and tossed them onto the bed. He held out his hand and waited. "My trousers?" For a moment Harry was sure Ron was going to toss them, but soon heard footsteps and felt a new pair of boxer shorts hit his hand. Stripping quickly and changing his undergarments he held out his hand for a new pair of jeans. Ron grunted and his footsteps disappeared.

"Can I turn now?"

"I really don't see any point." Harry said, slightly offended that it was so easy to forget his lack of ability toward eye contact. "Besides, Ron will be back soon."

"Are you alright with it, Harry?"

This question caught him off guard. He knew what she meant, but he didn't really want to think about it. "Alright with what?"

Hermione didn't say anything for a while. She let out a sigh and shifted her weight. Her clothes moved, so she was probably crossing her arms. "Ron and I…"

"Getting married?"

"_Getting married._"

Harry laughed lightly. "I'm just surprised it didn't happen sooner. Do you not want to marry him?"

"Of course I do!" She shot back, apparently turning toward Harry. "I've wanted to for so long. I just…you were gone for so long…"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Harry, you're like my brother. I wanted you to talk to. I wanted you to be the first I told and the first to give Ron the big brother talk…but when you wouldn't respond to my letters…I had my doubts."

"But I thought you'd just told everyone—"

"I had to talk to someone about it." Hermione sounded like she was trying to fight tears. "And it hurt me that you weren't the one I talked to."

Harry didn't say anything for a moment. Then he felt Hermione's small arms wrap through his and he felt her mop of hair against his chest. He couldn't say he wasn't surprised, but he did hug her back, petting the top of her head softly. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. He felt tears running down his chest and squeezed her lightly before trying to lighten the mood. "So, instead, you told Mrs. Weasley?" He chuckled. "And I thought you were the clever one."

She laughed and let go, stepping back and sniffing loudly. "No, actually. I told Ginny." Harry swallowed hard. "Apparently Mrs. Weasley found an Extendable Ear lying around."

"Her ears are extendable, Hermione."

They laughed lightly before he heard Hermione turn around. "I'm anxious to see when you and Ginny—"

"Got the jeans!" Ron chimed, conveniently unaware of what he'd just interrupted.


End file.
